Wednesday, December 23, 2009

When I work at the club, there are usually just two servers and a bartender. That's it. There are not a lot of people "on the floor" most of the time and I generally work with the same couple of people each week because of our set schedule. The other server I work with is tall, dark and handsome. Like literally, he is 6' 3", black hair and very good looking. I think he is a model/actor or something and he is really young. For the sake of this blog, let's just say his name is Pretty Baby. I really like Pretty Baby even though I seriously think I am old enough to be his father, which makes a teeny tiny bit of my soul die when I admit that. And when I say a "teeny tiny" bit of my soul I mean most of it. When we work, the room is divided in half for each of our stations. A few days ago, the guests were being seated and Pretty Baby went up to his first table in the back half of the room. The first person in his station was this older gay man who was with his friend and when he saw Pretty Baby, he exclaimed, "Oh boy, we get the handsome waiter." This was probably followed by some drool dripping from the corners of his mouth, his tongue hanging out and him untucking his shirt so it covered the front of his pants. First off, middle aged gay man, I can hear you. The handsome waiter implies that there is only one handsome waiter in the room meaning I am not it. Now I may not be Brad Pitt, George Clooney, Soupy Sales or whoever is considered hot these days, but I ain't no Quasi-fucking-modo. I suddenly felt like The Elephant Man or that guy from that movie Mask. (Funny store: I remember seeing Mask at the movie theater while getting drunk on California Coolers. There's a clue as to how old I am. Quiet dramatic part of the movie and my friend Kim yelled out, "Awww, chin up, Rocky! Why the long face?) Anyhoo, I guess the customer had just delegated me to "the funny one" or worse yet "the other one." Thanks. That's great. Like being at work is not torturous enough, now I have to hear from customers that I am practically an eye sore. Pretty Baby assured me that the man said a handsome waiter and not the handsome waiter. Uh huh. Sure. Fine.

Monday, December 21, 2009

Now I don't drink coffee, so maybe I just don't "get it" but it seems to me that whether you put half and half or skim milk in your coffee, it wouldn't make that big of a difference. Too many times, I have taken coffee to someone and they have a mini stroke when they find out I had the gall to bring them whole milk instead of heavy cream. Or half and half instead of skim milk. The simplest way for these people to avoid this horror of horrors is to just ask for what they want when they ask for their coffee. A simple "with skim milk" will work wonders. It saves me a trip back to the kitchen and it would save the customer from having to contort their face into a ridiculous expression when their brain tries to to wrap itself around the idea of possibly having whole milk. And it's only a tablespoon anyway, right?

I looked up the difference in calories for various dairy products. Based on a tablespoon serving, heavy cream has 52 calories, half and half has 20, whole milk has 9 and skim has 5. Can someone please explain to me why some lady would freak the fuck out on me that I brought her whole milk instead of skim? It's a difference of 4 fucking calories. It's not like I tried to force feed her a Cinnabon cinnamon roll (730 calories) or something. When someone doesn't specify, I will just bring whole milk. I figure that it's sorta middle of the road and won't make that big of a difference. Keep in mind that a lot of times the woman (it's always a woman. Men don't care) who can't handle that tablespoon of whole milk in her coffee, is perfectly fine ordering a three egg omelette with bacon and cheddar but God forbid she has those four extra calories from the whole milk. And here's a little secret about skim milk that surely happens in restaurants around the globe. If I only have whole milk and the customer really really wants skim milk, I will do whatever I can to please that customer. I want them to have their skim milk, I really do. Therefore, after much experimentation, I have learned that one part whole milk to one part tap fucking water produces the finest skim milk known to man in all the land. People don't know the difference anyway. It's like when this asshole asked me for a glass of milk once at the Marriott. He had already gotten way on my nerves, so I served him a glass of half and half. He drank it. All of it. I think when he left I heard him fucking say "moo."

Friday, December 18, 2009

Maybe it's possible that I have a teeny tiny stripe of vindictiveness within my soul, but when a person's credit card is declined I get some small bit of pleasure from it. Sometimes it happens to the most perfect person. I love when it happens to some asswipe who has given me so many problems and thought he was a big shot because he could boss around a waiter. When a guy like that has his card declined, my inner joy shoots right out of my eyes and onto his retard face when I utter those horribly embarrassing words. "Your credit card was declined." People always have the same reaction. "Well, did you swipe it again? Or maybe type in the numbers, because the strip is bad? I'm sure that card is good." Trust me, we always try it again because we don't want to deal with it any more than you do. I would way rather it just be approved than have to go back to your bankrupt ass while you dig through your purse or wallet and try to find the "good" card. I usually try to tell them discreetly so as not to shame them in front of their friends, but I worked with this one guy at the Black Eyed Pea who loved it when a card was declined. One time, he went back to the man of no credit who was paying for his party of six or seven. He told him loudly and clearly "your card was declined." He said it plenty loud enough so that everyone else at the table was sure to hear it as well. It was just plain mean and nasty. God, I loved that freakin' guy. It's the little things that get me through my shift...

Thursday, December 17, 2009

Why is it so freaking hard to find a decent towel to wipe down a table with? Is it that difficult to have towels around? Are towels so fucking valuable that they must be kept under lock and key and only given out when the previous towel is just a bunch of sad tired threads only held together by the omelet they most recently wiped up? At my last job, they were locked in the office because you just know that I wanted to steal a whole bag of them and sell them on the underground black market for dish rags. Or maybe put them on eBay. Yeah, that's where the real money is for dish rags. You always had to ask the manager to please go get you one. Stingy fuckers. Or sometimes, they just don't have any, so you keep using the same rag over and over again. Wipe a table? Sure. Wipe a seat? Sure. Wipe an ass? Well, all I have is this one towel, so..okay, sure.

And they always are supposed to be that sanit bucket thing which is totally gross. All it is is a bucket of hot water and bleach, but why the fuck does have to be hot water? It's not like it stays hot. Within half an hour you are sticking your hands into a bucket of room temperature bleach water that has food floating in it in order to wipe down a table with a towel that is thinner than a goddamn Kleenex. I never put the towel back into the sanit bucket. Fuck that. I don't need to get my hands all bleachy-smelling and dry just so some customer can have a clean table. I rinse the towel under the faucet and call that shit clean enough.

Or what about when you have the pleasure of working in a restaurant that has real linen napkins instead of paper ones. It's like an unlimited supply of towels. Grab a dinner napkin, wet it and clean that fucking cappuccino machine. Who cares that the coffee never comes out of the napkin? If they would've just had plenty of towels in the first place, it wouldn't even be an issue. Those dinner napkins get used to wipe down all kinds of crap. If someone spills a soda, you just throw a pile of napkins on it. Is the refrigerator dirty? Hey, wipe it down with a dinner napkin. And then just throw it into the bag to go to the laundry and it will soon be back nice, clean and pressed. It's ready to sit on the lap of a customer who uses it to gently wipe the sweet mouth of her one year old little girl. The same napkin that only two days ago helped serve as a dam to keep the overflowing toilet water from seeping into the break room.

Wednesday, December 16, 2009

So you know, I actually pretty much like my job these days. Of course it does help that I only work two days a week so it makes it a lot easier to tolerate the overall employment thing. For the most part the clientele that come in are pretty respectful and nice. I said for the most part. A few nights ago the Queen of the Cunts graced us with her presence. She had a made a reservation for the show because she was dear personal friends with the performer. Like we give a shit. She had requested a booth when she made the reservation, but a request is not a guarantee. For the sake of anonymity, let us say that her name was Laverne Defazio. Well someone else had also made a reservation that night and her name was very similar, like Laverne Defazia. So guess who didn't her booth. Well, the host offered her another booth but that one wasn't good enough. All the other booths were full because other people got there when the doors opened like they are supposed to and not five minutes before the show starts. This is when she opened up the floodgates to her true cunt power. She unleashed a tidal wave of cuntiness and we were suddenly up to our knees in her bitch juice. (I just couldn't say cunt juice. Cunt juice is too disgusting even for me to type. Hee hee...cunt juice.) She started bitching and moaning and whining and basically getting on my nerves. She was finally sat at a table which was actually better than the booth because it has a direct sight line to the stage and no waiters pass in front of it a thousand times during the show. But it still wasn't good enough. She headed back to the host stand to start complaining again and this is when our dear mild-mannered host looked at her and said "get outta my face!" She stormed over to a bartender to try to complain to him too. Like what the fuck do you want us to do, lady? Build you another booth? Or maybe we can make you a balcony or a box seat? Or if you're such dear personal friends of the performer, just have them sing at your fucking apartment. She stomped back to her seat to wait for the show to start. Of course she was in my station now.

I went up to her table with my biggest phoniest smile and acted like I had no idea what had been happening and started kissing her ass to try and smooth her ego. I took the order for her and her four friends. She ordered her Campari and soda and the show started. Then she had another Campari and soda. She asked me to bring her the check early so about ten minutes before the show was over I gave it to her. I leaned over and put my hand on her forearm and whispered in her ear. "I just wanted to let you know that we comped three of your drinks in order to make up for the misunderstanding at the beginning of the evening." Her bony hand latched onto my wrist and she hissed back at me.

"I want you to know that your host was very rude to me. What he said to me hurt me. It hurt my feelings and it hurt me deeply. My heart is hurt and I am very offended by it. I made these reservations for an evening of happiness and now it's ruined. My heart is hurt!" Meanwhile, her friends are still watching the show like they don't give a rats ass about her heart or how badly it was hurting. I looked at her and said, "okay."

She got up and went back to the bartender to complain again. By this time the host was gone because his shift was over. We told her that he was asked to leave and he may be fired. (Not true. At all.) She was reiterating what had happened as if we had forgotten it in the last 45 minutes. By this time, the Campari was doing all the talking. And the show was still happening. You know, the show? The show with her dear friends singing that she wanted to see so badly? It's happening as she is in the bar having a mini stroke. The bartender tells her to go sit down and enjoy the end of the show and she finally does. What a pain in the ass. And the tip? She gave me $30 which was way more than 20%. I think it was because out of all that commotion, I was the only one who didn't care enough to get involved, but from her point of view I was the nice one. Apathy wins again!

Monday, December 14, 2009

While I was writing about the disgusting habits of the lemon, it brought to mind another item that is found in every restaurant that also has its fair share of nastiness to it. Ketchup. Or Catsup. However the fuck you decide to spell it, the shit is nasty. Don't misunderstand me. As a rule, ketchup is not a nasty condiment. The bottle in my fridge right now is perfectly fine and dandy. However, it is not the same bottle that has been there for two years and I just keep refilling it over and over again, each time scraping off the black crud that has accumulated on the rim and lid. We save that behavior for restaurant ketchups. The last place I worked that had ketchup used the same bottles and we just refilled them every weekend. So if the bottle was half empty (or half full for you eternal cock-eyed optimist fucks) we just filled it up. What that means is, the ketchup at the bottom of the bottle just stays there for months and months at a time. It's really gross. And you know that it's time to throw it away when tiny bubbles start forming on the inside of the bottle. When you see that happening, run for the hills because the shit is about to blow. Or you can just put that bottle on the shelf and save it for the next time some real cunt asks for ketchup and you can give her that one and hope that the tomato time bomb goes off right in her cunty face. Fingers crossed. I've seen it happen. The pressure builds up and as soon as you unscrew the lid, it sends ketchup all over the place. It makes a big mess and it's a pain in the ass to clean it up, but if it gets all over a customer it's so totally worth it. You gotta take the good with the bad.

When I go to a restaurant, the first thing I do is look at the ketchup bottle. If the inside of the lid is caked with old dead ketchup, I order something that will not require me to said condiment. I would way rather have a ketchup packet than a bottle anytime. At least with a packet, you know you are the only one who has used it. The bottles that sit on the table all the time are the worst. How many times have you seen some dick who can't get the ketchup to flow? What does he do? He sticks a knife in the bottle to get the ketchup. And what if that knife is the same one he just used for mustard or to slice his sandwich or to scratch his ass with? And then that same bottle of nasty ass-scratched ketchup is there for you to use.

Saturday, December 12, 2009

I was at work the other day about to put a lemon wedge onto the glass of someones Diet Coke when I accidentally dropped it and watched the lemon fall to the floor. I sighed and bent down to pick it up to throw it in the trash because it would certainly be unsanitary to give a guest a lemon wedge that had fallen on the floor. I tossed the lemon into the garbage but then I thought about something. It's not like that lemon was even clean to begin with. No one in a restaurant ever washes the fruit. They just don't. When I am at home, I scrub the hell out of it because that piece of fruit has been all over the fucking place; in the hands of some migrant worker and then tossed into a bucket and then onto a truck and then into a shipping facility and then onto another truck and then into a grocery store. And you know some of the time it rolls around on the ground. Do you think that shit ever gets washed? Hell no. It's as dirty as the bottom of a shoe of a man who just peed at a public urinal. But in the restaurant world, we look at that lemon and think, "Meh, clean enough. Slice that bitch up and put it in a drink."

Am I the only one who believes that the bar fruit in a restaurant is one of the nastiest things on the planets? It's right up there with that bowl of peanuts that sits on the bar at your favorite dive that everyone eats out of. Germy, nasty, bacteria-ridden, skanky shit. Bon appetite!

Monday, December 7, 2009

The Bitchy Waiter blog turns one year old today. There have been 109 posts and almost 20,000 visitors. That is a post every 3.34 days which is pretty good when you consider how incredibly lazy and unmotivated I am. I have worked in two different restaurants, catered in many places and bitched about it the whole time. I just wanted to say thank you for reading. Thank you for commenting. And thank you to all the people who took photos that I have so totally stolen for this website. Well, a couple of the photos are mine. And the big pancake painting is actually mine too. So no bitching today. If I could have one thing, it would be to have all the servers of the world gather around me and present me with a stale piece of cake with a dirty candle in it. And then I would want then to all sing a birthday song to me all off key and uncaring and then as soon as they are done, I want them to run away from my table and go to the side stand and say what a douche I am for having waiters sing to me on my birthday.

One year ago today I wrote my first post. I weep with pride. You can click here to see where it all started. Once a bitch, always a bitch.

And what else do I want? I want you to share this blog with your fellow bitchy friends. Just click a link. Is that hard? It's not like I am asking for separate checks or anything.

There must have been a 50% off coupon for my club mailed to all AARP members this week because my whole station smelled like old people yesterday. You know the smell? A little bit of moth ball and Lysol with a hint of poo? Woman at table 13 last night. I give her my usual routine about the two-beverage minimum and how it would be best if she could just tell me both drinks at the beginning so I don't have to crawl over everybody and yell into her hearing aid to ask what she wants in the middle of the show. She seemed confused by me asking what she wanted for her second drink even though she hadn't had her first one. I felt bad. I know how confusing things can be for older people. Remote controls, computers, garage door openers...the world can be a scary place, old lady. She ordered a tonic water. So I asked her if she wanted that for her second drink as well. And then she asked me something that no one has ever asked me before while I was waiting on them. She looked up at me with sad sorrowful eyes and cocked her head to the right a bit. And then she asked me. She said, "Is tonic water a laxative?" Uh, what? What the fuck is the old lady asking me? I didn't know if she wanted it to be a laxative because she needed to make a Grandma Poopy Pie or if she was scared it was a laxative because she had already had her daily recommended allowance of laxative and one more bit of laxative would make a big embarrassing scene. I told her quite honestly that I didn't know. In my head I was thinking "oh if this lady takes a fucking dump here, I will cut an old bitch." She decided that just to be on the safe side she would have a bottled water for her second drink. Just to be on the safe side? It sounds to me like Grandma McGrunty needed to skip the show tonight and make a date with her dear friend Mr. Toilet.

The show went on without incident. She flagged me down for the check before the show was over because she was in a hurry. It doesn't take much thought to figure out what she was in a hurry to do. She bolted out as soon as the show was done. I warily approached her seat scared of what I might find when I looked down at it. Thankfully, it was clean and dry. I hadn't been that concerned about the dryness of a seat since two weeks ago when this lady was squirming all over chair as she was watching a Peter Allen tribute show. The guy singing was Australian and I just wanted to remind her that this guy wasn't really Peter Allen. He's dead. Didn't matter to her though. She was hopping and jumping all over that seat and I was just glad that any possible wettness stayed in her panties.

I have since done some exhaustive research (I googled it) and found no link to tonic water being a laxative. So rest assured, people. Feel free to drink those gin and tonics without any fear of softened stools or unsightly bowel movements. You're welcome.

Friday, December 4, 2009

So I was watching television today and saw about two minutes of The Real Housewives of Wherever the Fuck. Honestly, I was just switching channels and this scene caught my eye. I don't normally waste my precious time watching such mediocre crap on television. I use my boob tube time for important shit like So You think You Can Dance, The Biggest Loser, America's Next Top Model, Top Chef, Survivor and 60 Minutes. Okay one of those is not true, but I will let you guess which one of those things is not like the others. Anyhoo, one of the women was ordering at a cocktail at a restaurant. Not sure of her name or which one she was, but she was blond and had really big fake-looking tits. Does that narrow it down at all? When she ordered, I hated her immediately. I actually grabbed a pen and paper and wrote down what she said:

I'm gonna do a Cadillac margarita but I like it with Sterling Silver with a little bit of Grand Mariner and two fresh limes squeezed in it with soda water and only salt on part of the rim.

Is she for fucking real? Then she bragged about how she likes to order food in a certain way because she is so particular. She calls it particular, while I call it cunt-like. The waitress had a big ol' smile plastered to her face but you know it was only there because she had this fucking reality show camera all up in her ass. I bet as soon as she got to the side stand, she found the skankiest glass she could find to give to the bartender. And then she probably said to the bartender, "this lady is a fucking cunt." And then I bet the bartender took the two fresh lime wedges that she wanted and he dropped them onto the floor before he dropped them into her glass and then when he salted the rim (partially) he used dishwater to adhere the salt and the Grand Mariner was probably just cheap ass triple sec. Because that is what she deserved. Honestly if you need something that specific, make it at home.

I don't know why it bothered me so much, but it did. I could feel the pain of the waitress and I wanted to reach into my screen and pat her on the shoulder and tell her that everything was going to be okay. And then I wanted to cunt punch that "real" housewife because she needs that to happen to her for once. And it would have made great reality television.

Tuesday, December 1, 2009

Does anyone have to deal with "on-call shifts" at their job? If you are a nurse working the ER or a doctor, sure. Then it's important to have that on-call person in case a busload of kids is in an accident and the hospital is overrun with need. But an on-call waiter just pisses my shit off. I had one job once where they always had an on-call person and that was only one of the many things that made it a craptastic place to work. I won't say the name of it but let's just hypothetically say it was Josie's at Amsterdam and 74th. I was dreading the day that it would be my turn to be on-call. You have to keep that whole day free just in case they might need you. And the only time they needed you was when some other bitch waiter called in sick and the only reason that bitch waiter would call in sick was because he knew there was an on-call loser that would have to come in for him. It was a vicious vicious cycle and I really resented it. So anyhoo, the day came. I saw on the schedule that I was on-call for 4:00 and I would have to call at 3:00 to see if I had to come to work. Well, it took me 45 minutes to get to work so I basically was going to have to be ready to leave as soon as I got off the phone. I had already scheduled a catering gig for that night because it was sure thing and I didn't want to pass it by. Well, those bitches called me at 2:00 and said, "Bad news, Bitchy Waiter. We need you to come in at 4:00." I said, "Yeah, about that. I need to come in and talk to you, Mr. Manager." So on the way to my sure thing catering gig, I popped into the hypothetical Josie's at 4:00. I had my uniform, my apron, my check presenter and my bad attitude in a paper sack. I saw one of the managers and asked if I could talk to her in private. She was the cool one. She looked at me. She looked at the bag in my hand. And she said, "You're quitting aren't you?"

I did quit. I gave them no notice whatsoever and said my fond farewell to the place that I had given some of the best three weeks of my life. The manager that was working that night was a total prick. And all the waitresses at that place were total bitches who were mean and spiteful and I was so completely happy to walk through the dining room and know that they were going to be screwed all night because I was quitting. Fuck you, hypothetical Josie's at Amsterdam and 74th. Your on-call shifts can eat my pud.

Also, you may have noticed that I have made it even easier for people to share Bitchy Waiter postings with this handy dandy link below. You can click it to share it on your Facebook, Myspace or whatever else needs more Bitchy Waiter in its life. Spread the word, peeps. The world needs Bitchy Waiter.

Monday, November 30, 2009

Y'all, I only have one more Thanksgiving post and then I promise I am finished. Thanksgiving was four days ago and by now we are all sick of turkey sandwiches, turkey pot pie, turkey and eggs, turkey soup and any other way you tried to eat that tired leftover fucking bird. But I think I found a new Thanksgiving tradition that I shall look forward to each and every year. From the cornucopia of traditions we find marshmallows on sweet potatoes and cranberry sauce slices that came out of a can, but I proudly suggest this new rite that we shall do the fourth Thursday of November from now on: throw a big fucking ham into Paula Deen's face. You have probably already seen the video and loved it like I have. You are probably also wondering what the hell this has to do with the Bitchy waiter. Well, honestly, not much. Other than there was food involved. And they were serving it. I guess, Paula was at a food shelter dolling out about a million pounds of meat that she was donating. They were having some kind of ham tossing party when one rogue (Sarah Palin) ham went AWOL up against Paula Deen's nose. Luckily for Paula, her face was covered in butter and grease from the Lard and Sausage biscuits she had inhaled for breakfast and the ham gently slid right off of her face. I'm surprised she didn't just catch that ham in her mouth and eat it like my dog does when I throw him a piece of Boar's Head. Thankfully, Paula was not seriously injured. She put a raw steak on her nose to maintain the swelling but she accidentally ate the steak and then whipped up a batch of peanut butter, butter and bacon bars. She laughed the incident off as pigs across America high-fived one another. The rogue (Sarah Palin) ham has not been seen since the encounter and it is assumed that it went into hiding and is shopping around a book deal.

My Brady Bunch obsession peeks out yet again as the whole pig in the face is completely reminiscent of the time Marcia Brady was hit in the nose with a football (also known as a "pigskin"). Marcia and Paula should totally get together and discuss what it feels like to have the shit knocked out of them by a piece of meat. Thanksgiving is officially over for me.

Sunday, November 29, 2009

Hopefully everyone is recovering from their Thanksgiving Day festivities of gorging themselves with food and the undeniable effect of tryptophan. I celebrated the holiday by donning my apron and serving for a family in Upstate New York. It was the fourth holiday I have spent with this family; three Thanksgivings and one Christmas. They are Jewish, so don't ask me why I was there last year helping them serve a Christmas dinner. All I know is they love me. They pay me.

When I walked in the whole family of about 15 people were there waiting for dinner to be served. By me. They were very happy to see me and all greeted me warmly. I felt like Norm on Cheers when I walked in because they all said my name at once. The lady of the house gave me a hug and off to the kitchen I went. Normally what I do for them is arrive as they are finishing up dinner. I clear the table, make coffee, serve dessert and then wash all the dishes and clean the kitchen. This time they were still cooking when I got there and they needed my help as far as timing and coordinating the dishes to all be done at once. For some reason they think I know what I am doing in the kitchen. The guy who staffed me out must have blown some smoke up their ass because they ask me all kinds of questions. "How long do you think we should cook this?" and "What serving dish do you think we should use?" My standard answers for these questions are "350 degree for about 15 to 20 minutes" and "the white serving dishes are the best because it makes the food pop."

Since dinner was still cooking I had time to do some busy work. I putzed around and washed a few dishes. Made a salad. There was one guy there who was a friend of the family and started making small talk with me. He asked me where I live. New York City. He asked me what I do. I told him I have several jobs and today I am just working here in Irvington, New York. "You have to work today? On Thanksgiving?" He was incredulous that anyone would have to work on such a special day. "Where??" He totally did not get that I was there to serve. That was when I knew it was time to pull my bistro apron out of my bag and put it on. After his mild embarrassment and my apathy, the division of classes was clear. I was "the help."

I put food in the oven, and pulled it out when it was done, served their meal and cleared the plates and washed about a thousand dishes by hand. It was basically a glorified maid kind of day. Since you know of my love for The Brady Bunch, I imagined myself as Alice. A younger more attractive and not so frumpy Alice If you need to reminded of my obsession you can click here and read all about it. It really wasn't that bad. People are willing to pay a fortune to have someone work on a holiday and I don't mind it a bit. I left with my pockets full of cash and a huge tip. "Good bye, Bitchy Waiter," they said. (Okay, they actually used my name...) "We love when you are here. Next Thanksgiving we might hire someone else and have you over for dinner." I smiled politely and said how nice that would be. But inside I was thinking "the only way I will drag my ass to Irvington, New York to have Thanksgiving dinner at your place is for a paycheck." Don't get me wrong. They're really nice. But they ain't my family. I'm there for the money.

Thursday, November 26, 2009

Today is the day. The day that we gather around the table with friends and family to express our thankfulness for all the blessings that have been bestowed upon us. We say our blessing (the one time a year we do it) and then get down to business. Pass the mashed potatoes, bitch, I's hungry. We skip the crappy bowl of English Pea Salad that Aunt Cheryl makes every fucking year. No one eats it. She just makes it as a joke and then we throw it away at the end of the day because we are Americans and we do things like throw away perfectly good food. Happy Thanksgiving! We cram our faces full of turkey and ham because we need two meats on our table. And then it is time for the real food. Dessert. Pecan pie, pumpkin pie, chocolate pie, coconut pie, cookies, brownies, fudge, ice cream. We need it all because it is Thanksgiving and that is what thanksgiving is about; eating ourselves into a food induced coma until we have to roll into the living room and onto the couch to watch some stupid ass football game until we fall asleep. And then wake up later to eat another piece of pie. Burp.

I am off to work. Because I am a waiter. I don't do these family things with my family. I get on train to go to Upstate New York and celebrate Thanksgiving with another family. And when I say "celebrate" I mean, serve their food, make their coffee, clear their table, wash their dishes and then clean their fucking kitchen.

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

I decided to make a list (in bullet form since I learned the HTML code for it. Fancy, ain't it?) of all the things I hate to hear coming from the mouth of a customer. None of them are unique or interesting and I don't care to ever hear these phrases again. Holla to Thomas for the inspiration for this bitchy post.

"Oh I hated it." when I clear their plate that they virtually licked clean. Tired joke.

"You don't even have to send that plate to the dishwasher." when I clear their plate that they virtually licked clean. Tireder joke.

"What do you have to drink?" This makes me crazy. Every restaurant has the same things to drink. They just do.

"Can I get seconds?" If you want to order another entree, that is fine with me.

"Are you an actor?" All waiters in New York City are not actors. I happen to be one.

"Have I seen you in anything?" You have never seen me in anything unless you make a habit of seeing really bad theater in basements in the outer boroughs. Or maybe you picked me out of the crowd scene in that Enchanted movie.

"What's good?" The most expensive thing is the best tasting thing on the menu. Order two.

"Is this really Diet Coke?" If you ordered a fucking Diet Coke, then you got a fucking Diet Coke. The only time I may switch one soda for another is when a fat kid orders a third Coke. The third one will be a Diet Coke because it just needs to be.

"I'm allergic to ________ ." Are you really allergic to it or do you just not want it?

"It's my birthday!" Hurrah for you. You were born. What a colossal achievement to be proud of. No, you do not get free shit.

"I'm a really good tipper." Anyone who says this is not a good tipper. Ever.

"We are really in a hurry." No you're not. You're just really hungry.

"Do you have a restroom?" Seriously?

"I would like a cup of hot coffee." Thank you for reminding me to not get your coffee from the pot that is labeled room temperature coffee.

"Is our food ready?" Yes, it is. It's been sitting back there on a shelf for 15 minutes but I just wasn't sure that you really wanted it but now that I know you do, I will go get it.

"I know what I want to order" when you clearly have no idea what the fuck you want to order.

"Oh you don't close for five more minutes? Whew, we made it just in time!" I hate you and so does the kitchen staff. Please do enjoy our saliva.

"Is this dessert low calorie?" They think it's funny to ask this as they cram a cheesecake into their face. It's not funny. It's sad.

"Can I get these fries to go?" Just eat the fucking fries now. They are only french fries and they will taste like ass when you try to reheat them in your microwave tomorrow.

"What else do you do?" as if waiting tables isn't enough to occupy one's life. It's insulting and I don't need to tell you what else I do with my life. (I sit at home and question my decision to not get my teacher's certificate.)

"Can I get some more bread?" Just because it is free does not mean you have to eat a baker's dozen worth of rolls.

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

I went to a mandatory meeting at my job last week. It was the first meeting that I have had to go to since starting at this job and I was filled with giddy anticipation. After all, the owners would be there and who doesn't want to meet the people that they work for? We were told that it would start precisely at 5:30 and last for about 45 minutes. It was essential that we get there on time because it would definitely start at 5:30. So at 5:50, I was a bit grumpy because it was "time to get this ball rollin'." Why the fuck did I bust my ass to get there on time on my fucking day off if it didn't even matter?

Due to my prior experience with mandatory meetings at restaurants, I had already decided to not say a word because there are always plenty of others who have more than enough to say. I have also learned that nothing makes a bit of difference anyway. Managers and owners have all these grand ideas that they want implemented and they try to encourage their staff to work as a team and all that crap. But nothing ever changes. "From now on, the schedule will be made two weeks in advance!" Uh huh, sure. "No more cell phone use allowed!" Right, got it. "Give customers the correct order!" Yeah, that'll happen. Blah blah blah, in one ear and out my ass.

And then the owners speak. Two guys that never bothered to introduce themselves to me. I still don't know their names, but I know for a fact that they are really really important people. Because they wear suits. They blabbed about how customer service is their number one priority when we all know their priority is making money. It just is. No need to try to hide it, fellas. Own up to it and I might be willing to push a bit harder for you. But for you to sit up there with your big fancy JC Penny suits and try to convince me that the only reason you are in this business is to make customers happy is a big load of crap.

The meeting was supposed to be over at 6:15. At 6:50, when the meeting was over, I put my coat on and left. Next shift at work was exactly the same. Mandatory meetings are a waste of time. We all know it. The people who call the meetings are the only ones who are under the influence that they matter. They don't. How about you? What are your thoughts on the big time suck known as "the mandatory meeting?"

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

So you may have noticed that I have not written for a while. Maybe you didn't notice and that's okay too. Contrary to popular belief, it is not because I am lazy and complacent. Well, that may have been part of it, I freely admit. However, the main reason for the lack of posts is because I was busy healing. Uh huh. Doctors went all up in me and cut my ass up. There was an operating room, surgeons and blood involved. Don't be skeered, kids. It was minor surgery involving my septum and its deviance. It was not sex reassignment surgery as someone has suggested. Hopefully I will soon be able to breathe freer and easier. Years and years of mouth breathing shall soon come to an end. Minor or not though, that shit freaked me out and for the week before it happened, it was all I thought about. Feel free to comment with a "get well soon" or "hope you're better" or you can always justclick here if you really want to make feel better.

I return to work tonight after a week of channel surfing, soft foods and Vicodin. The doctors tell me that I should take it easy for about two weeks to not encourage bleeding. And, really who ever wants to encourage bleeding? That translates to:

do not carry any ice

do not carry any racks of glasses up or down a flight of stairs

do not carry a tray of more than three drinks

do not prepare your own spinach/artichoke dip; ask a host to do it

do not tolerate idiocy from any guest

walk slowly and if someone tells you they are in a hurry, tell them "fuck off, I just had goddam surgery."

avoid all sidework

get to work 15 minutes late and leave 15 minutes early

ask for double time, overtime, holiday pay and hazard pay

do not smile, it may hurt your nose

mention to your guests that you had surgery and hope for some pity tips

Sunday, November 8, 2009

As a waiter, we all hate the evil that is known as "separate checks." What people don't seem to get is that when a party of ten people wants ten different checks, it increases my workload by ten. I have to initiate ten checks and ring in ten checks and print ten checks and then hand out ten checks to ten different bitches and assholes. I see the reasoning behind the separate checks. It makes it simpler to deal with and you don't have to divide up one check and see who bought what and how much so and so owes. When I go out to eat with a large group, I get the shudders about it because I know how annoying it is for the waiter. But boy oh boy do I wish I could get separate checks sometimes. It really does get to be a shitty deal when you are on one check with ten other people. It always ends up sucking ass.

If you are out with a few friends, it's usually no big deal Especially if most of those friends are servers because everyone puts in extra cash and the check always works out. But what about when it doesn't work out? My blood pressure shoots up to about a million over a million because I get so stressed out about it. I know I always put in more than enough to cover me, but inevitably, the check is always short and someone says "Oh just everyone put in an five extra bucks and that'll cover it." No. I already put in my amount. I know what my food costs and that the tax is 8.25% (which I always round up to 10% because it's easier) and then I add 20% for the tip. Done. Why do I need to put five more dollars in because some twat can't figure out what they owe? And when it's short everyone starts looking around the table to figure out who is the asshole that didn't put enough money down. In that case, I have been known to pull out my calculator and ask each person how much they put in and what did they have. I then will figure it out to the penny until we discover who "accidentally" forgot to put down a twenty dollar bill. It's really not fair. And those are the times I am wishing that I had been the prick that told the waiter we need separate checks. In that same scenario, sometimes the tip is really generous because everyone over compensated which is fine too. But what pisses me off in that setting is when someones says they need to put it on their credit card and they will just take the cash so they won't have to go to an ATM later. I have seen it happen and I know why they do it. It's because they notice that there is a shitload of extra money for the waiter, but they put it on their card and then just tip 15% and pocket the rest. I will cut a bitch for that. I knew one kid in college who always did that. We would all pay cash and he would put it on his credit card, which his parents paid for. So essentially we were just giving him our money. I stopped eating out with him after that. And began spreading rumors about an STD he may or may not have had.

Another reason I can see why separate checks are needed is when someone pulls the ol' "lets-just-split-it-ten-ways" routine. That really pisses me off unless we all ordered about the same thing. But what if we didn't? This happened to me very recently. Someone suggested we split the check six ways to make it simple. It was more like to make it cheaper. For them. It really pissed me off but I let it slide because I didn't want to make a scene. Shocking, I know. But the person who wanted to split six ways had a very expensive entree, a cocktail and shared a dessert while I had one Coke and a hamburger that was half the price of the entree they had had. I ended up paying about $15 more than I had eaten. I was steaming mad about that one, I tell you. But again, I am such a demure little petite flower, that I let is slide.

So what shall we do about the dilemma of the separate check? People will always want them and waiters will never want to give them. It is a conundrum indeed. I propose that people just pull their heads out of their asses and take cash when they go to a restaurant. Someone at the table has to be the banker and just go around the table and pinpoint exactly what everyone owes. Yeah, it's cunty to be "that guy" but fuck it. No one should have to pay extra because he happens to be eating out with a friend of a friend who is too cheap to pay their bill and only wants to leave a 5% tip. Step up, Mr. Banker. Be "that guy" and you will be the hero of all your friends. Well, except for the one guy or gal who had hoped to skip out on the check. Fuck them anyway.

Thursday, November 5, 2009

Our friendly neighborhood restaurateur, Bruce (of the Douchebags), has graced us with his wisdom once again in the continuation of his list of 100 things a server should never ever under any circumstances do. I published his picture so that you will know who he is if you ever see him. He sorta looks downright douchey, right? You can tell him The Bitchy Waiter said hello if you ever run into him. And when I say "run into him" I mean with your car. The New York Times must have had some extra columns to dole out this week, because they published this ridiculous list over two days. I say get this man a stone pallet and a chisel so he can carve these bitches out, because he is a genius. Moses may have had the ten commandments, but Bruce has 100 of them. Long live Bruce the Douche! Shall I respond?

51. If there is a service charge, alert your guests when you present the bill. It’s not a secret or a trick. Nope. They need to read the menu and look at the fine print. If some asswipe doesn't see that it says his grat will be added and chooses to tip again, do you really think I will alert him that he tipped 40% by accident. Please. Next.

55. Do not serve an amuse-bouche without detailing the ingredients. Allergies are a serious matter; peanut oil can kill. (This would also be a good time to ask if anyone has any allergies.) Not my responsibility to ask if they are allergic to something. They need to alert me. I don't have the fucking time to ask every single person if they are allergic to nuts or dairy. And if someone is going to die because they forgot to tell me about their peanut allergy, please do not do it in my station. Have the decency to die in the bathroom. Dead people in my station really bum me out and affect my tips.

58. Do not bring judgment with the ketchup. Or mustard. Or hot sauce. Or whatever condiment is requested. I will not judge you for putting ketchup on your steak if you don't judge me for being a waiter. Fair trade?60. Bring all the appetizers at the same time, or do not bring the appetizers. Same with entrees and desserts. Unless people ordered all at different times because your asshole manager Bruce allowed incomplete parties to be seated.

61. Do not stand behind someone who is ordering. Make eye contact. Thank him or her. Okay, but this will make it extremely awkward when they can actually see my eyes rolling out of my head.

66. Do not return to the guest anything that falls on the floor — be it napkin, spoon, menu or soy sauce. Does he really think that if someone drops their spoon on the floor and asks me for another, I am just going to hand them the same one right after picking it up from the disgusting floor? No. I am going to carry that spoon to the side stand and pretend I am getting another one and then hand them the spoon that I just picked up from the disgusting floor. And how do you drop soy sauce?

68. Do not reach across one guest to serve another. Unless people have crammed themselves into a table that was meant for fewer people and there is no other way to get their food to them.

69. If a guest is having trouble making a decision, help out. If someone wants to know your life story, keep it short. If someone wants to meet the chef, make an effort. Okay, didn't he tell us yesterday that telling people our favorite dessert was irrelevant? Which one is it, Bruce?

77. Do not disappear. Unless you are busy steaming a label off a wine bottle.

87. Do not stop your excellent service after the check is presented or paid. This one is easy to do if you never start giving excellent service in the first place.

88. Do not ask if a guest needs change. Just bring the change. Just fucking ask if they need change. There is nothing wrong with asking. We don't have time to make change for every single person when most don't need it. It takes away precious time for us to pay attention to the other 99 things on the list.

90. If someone is getting agitated or effusive on a cellphone, politely suggest he keep it down or move away from other guests. Oh, I am sure that will go over great. Just ask the asshole to step outside because he's annoying other people. Don't ask him if he needs change but feel free to tell him to leave the restaurant because he is annoying.

91. If someone complains about the music, do something about it, without upsetting the ambiance. (The music is not for the staff — it’s for the customers.) And what are we supposed to do about it? Take time away from our station to go downstairs to adjust the volume on the sound system. Or call the satellite company that is piping the music in and tell then that Table 21 doesn't like Neil Sedaka? And wouldn't that contradict #77?93. Do not play brass — no brassy Broadway songs, brass bands, marching bands, or big bands that feature brass, except a muted flugelhorn. The fugelhorn?? What the fuck is this guy talking about? And I speak from experience in saying that life is just better for all concerned when Dreamgirls is playing in a restaurant.

94. Do not play an entire CD of any artist. If someone doesn’t like Frightened Rabbit or Michael Bublé, you have just ruined a meal. Unless of course it is the all time classic recording of "Michael Bublé's Greatest Hits Accompanied by a Muted Fugelhorn."

97. If a guest goes gaga over a particular dish, get the recipe for him or her. Gaga? Nice attempt at trying to reach the youth of America with the coy Lady Gaga reference, but whatever, Bruce. No kitchen is going to give you the recipe and if they do, it's going to be a recipe that serves a hundred people. I am not going to convert a recipe that is in cups and gallons down to tablespoons and ounces.

100. Guests, like servers, come in all packages. Show a “good table” your appreciation with a free glass of port, a plate of biscotti or something else management approves. How about a free toothpick or something else that we can get freely and quickly, because in your anal retentive restaurant I am pretty sure the kitchen or bartender is not going to just hand over some free port or biscotti without it being ordered.

Obviously, Bruce has never been a server. He expects way too much from his slaves and the only way all of that will be possible will be if the stations are two tables. Customers may love the place, who knows. But I am certain that working there will be a huge clusterfuck. Good luck to all the servers in Bruce's domain. Perhaps I should write a list of "100 Things Restaurant Customers Should Never Do" and send it in to The Times.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

An article in the New York Times was brought to my attention and I feel that it needs to be responded to. (Holla, Bonnie!) It is titled "100 Things Restaurant Staffers Should Never Do" and it is part one of a list of bullshit notions that some asshole restaurant owner came up with. I am a big fan of The Grey Lady, baby, but this list has gots to go. The writer of the list is some man named Bruce (lame name) who is opening a seafood restaurant. I get that he wants his staff to do all these things and that is fine. But I don't work for you, Bruce. This list is something that should be taped to the bulletin board in the kitchen of your restaurant. Don't put it in the newspaper and think that all servers will start obeying your commands just because it got published in the Times. The list is only 50 items long right now with part two coming out later. Let me respond to some of them.

1. Do not let anyone enter the restaurant without a warm greeting. I agree. Easy to do, no sweat off my back. Fine.

3. Never refuse to seat three guests because a fourth has not yet arrived. Bullshit. Incomplete parties fuck with my seating rotation, my order taking and the kitchen. If people can't be there on time, then they should not make a fucking reservation. End of story.

8. Do not interrupt a conversation. For any reason. Especially not to recite specials. Wait for the right moment. Seriously? What if the right moment never comes? Some people are so fucking full of hot air and gas that they never shut the fuck up so that I can do my job. Uh uh. You say "sorry to interrupt, but can I take you order, you gassy bellowing bucket of lard?"12. Do not touch the rim of a water glass. Or any other glass. Duh.13. Handle wine glasses by their stems and silverware by the handles. No shit, Sherlock.

20. Never refuse to substitute one vegetable for another. What about the rule on the menu that says "no substitutions"? It's a pain in the ass. Eat the fucking collard greens.

23. If someone likes a wine, steam the label off the bottle and give it to the guest with the bill. It has the year, the vintner, the importer, etc. Come on!! Who the fuck has time to steam a label off a bottle? Is this guy fucking kidding me? I don't even have time to spit in their food sometimes and he thinks I am going to do that? And where does he suggest I find a steamer? The cappuccino machine I guess? Get over it. Tell them the name of the wine and let them fucking write it down. How hard is it to remember Knotts Berry Farm, anyway?

32. Never touch a customer. No excuses. Do not do it. Do not brush them, move them, wipe them or dust them. I am firm believer in the gentle touch on the shoulder or elbow when you thank a guest for coming in. It increases your tip. It just does. It's not like I am grabbing a boob or something. And if they are in my way because they are wandering around the restaurant, I will push their ass out my way if I need to.37. Do not drink alcohol on the job, even if invited by the guests. “Not when I’m on duty” will suffice. Oh please. How the hell am I supposed to get through my shift?

38.Do not call a guy a “dude.”

39. Do not call a woman “lady.” I agree. Douchebag and Cunt are far more appropriate.

43. Never mention what your favorite dessert is. It’s irrelevant. So I guess just be the fucking robot waiter and say that everything is perfect and delicious even though some things suck and some things don't. I find that customers appreciate an honest opinion.

50. Do not turn on the charm when it’s tip time. Be consistent throughout. I am consistent. Consistently bitchy.

Thanks, Bruce for your wonderful insight. It sounds like your restaurant is such a joy to work in. Surely the next 50 ideas will be just as inspiring.

Thursday, October 29, 2009

Remember how a few weeks ago I was saying how the new place I work is all fancy and swankified because we have candles? Well, guess what. Candles are annoying. We have about forty or so of them in the room and all they do is irritate me and constantly need attention. To remove the leftover candle at the bottom of the votive involves a butter knife (later used for our hummus platter), some elbow grease and a few curse words. But the biggest thing about them that sucks is when someone pushes it off the table and a huge dollop of hot wax flies to every possible region of the room including pants, carpet, booths, chairs, tables and skin. Really annoying.

Last night, the performer wanted to have her show professionally videotaped. What that entails is one of the servers schlepping a table out of the room so that the camera can be set up in that space instead. It's really not that big of a deal, but last night the videotape lady wanted to help so she started dragging the table out of the way but failed to remove the candle that was on said table. And what do you think fucking happened? It slid off the table and landed in the booth and sloshed piping hot wax all over the goddamn fucking place. "Ooops. I guess that's what I get for trying to help. Hardy har har." What she gets? She didn't have to clean that shit up, I did. At the end of the night when I was ready to get the hell out of dodge, I spent 15 minutes scraping wax off a table and booth. There is no easy way to do it. I scraped it off with a check presenter, the whole while cursing her and wishing that the hot wax was used to give her a Brazilian instead. I wanted that wax poured all over her stinky labia. No seriously, she did smell. There was some serious body odor issue with her. I wanted to knock her up the side of her head with a box of Summer's Eve Douche and a Ban Roll-on. Damn, bitch was stanky.

A few days ago, I myself knocked over a candle. As it happened, it was like slow motion. I watched it fall and I processed where the wax would possibly land and I tried to position my face so that it would land on my eyebrows since they needed to be cleaned up a little bit. Of course the shit landed on my pants leg. On my fucking pants. Not on the carpet where it doesn't matter, or on the chair where it can be scraped off, or on my nipples where I can get a thrill, but on my freaking clothes. Googling "how to remove candle wax" gives you plenty of options, none of which I felt like doing when I got home at 1:00 AM. So I forgot about it and just threw the pants in the laundry. That seemed to work fine too.

Now when I get to work and see all those candles I feel differently about them. I no longer see the warm glow of ambiance enveloping the room. All I see is these little mother fucking votive holders of evil waiting to burn me and mock me with their fiery hatefulness. I hope they burn in hell.

Monday, October 26, 2009

I want people to take a mother fucking eye exam to sit in my station. Too many times, people claim they can't read the check or read the menu. They probably can't read the expression on my face either which is saying "shut the fuck up." Or maybe it's not an eye exam they need, it's the GED or high school fucking diploma that they missed out on that will explain their sheer stupid ass-ness.

This man was in my station to see the show last week. He seemed a bit odd. Like the kinda guy that sits in his room all day and looks at internet porn. Okay, that statement just described me and half of the people who are reading this blog, but you know what I mean. The creepy kind of person that sits in his room all day and looks at internet porn. He had beady little eyes, a comb-over, some sort of sinus issue and a hunchy kind of back. I asked him what he wanted for the first of his two beverages and he sighed and said "uh, (sniff sniff) I dunno. I don't drink alcohol." He said it all whiny and shit. I never said he had to drink alcohol, anyway. So he ordered a cranberry and orange juice combo because I guess he figured he was in a club so why not live it up. Get cranberry and orange juice! Halfway through the show I asked him if he wanted his second drink to be the same wild and crazy beverage as his first and he said no. Fine with me.

End of the show. I gave him his check. It had a ten dollar cover charge for the singer, a five dollar charge for his mocktail and a five dollar minimum charge since he requested to not have the second drink. His total was $21.78. Porno Pervy pulls out a ten dollar bill. Without looking, I picked up his check before I realized how lacking it was in funds. I went back to him and told him that I needed more money from his ass.

"But why?" he whined. "All I had was one juice (sniff sniff). A juice is more than ten dollars?"

I explained to him that there was a cover charge and a two drink minimum which is what his seating pass clearly stated. He told me he never read it because it was too dark. "And I didn't know there was a cover charge." I don't know what his excuse was for not hearing it as the host sat him and as I told him again when I took his order. He then laid down a twenty dollar bill for his $21.78 tab. Again, read the check.

"Almost there," I said. "Seventy-eight more cents and we'll have it." He pulled a dollar out of his pocket and I could see the sad look on his face as he realized that dollar bill was not going into the panties of some tired ass pole dancer later that night. I gave him his twenty-two cents back and he put it in his pocket.

No tip for Bitchy Waiter. All because this twat couldn't comprehend the writing that explained what it cost to be in the show. A cabaret club and he didn't know there was a cover charge? Nothing in New York City is free. Read the fine print.

Saturday, October 24, 2009

I wanted to thank you for your comment on the last post regarding ice machines. Since you opted to submit your thoughts anonymously, I am forced to thank you publicly. For those who missed the keen insight of this dear reader, here is what Anonymous had to say:

Get a different job. Obviously you are to stupid to work in the Bar/Restaurant industry....Ice machines are loud cumbersome but oh so necessary machines. I suggest finding employment in an office where they give you a cubicle with all you need right there so you won't have to move your fat lazy ass! Oh, and bring your own ice water!!!

Dear sweet, addled Anonymous. Surely you must recognize sarcasm. You don't really expect that I want an ice machine to be suspended over a bar so that the ice can fall directly into the bin. Do you really think I want that and expect it to happen? You dear, dear, sweet person. If you are a regular reader of this blog, you would know that all of my writing is to be taken with a grain of salt and with tongue placed firmly in cheek.

One more thing you should know. You do not know the difference between the words "to" and "too" so I placed a link for you to check out after you read this. I think it will help you in the future when you want to put your two cents in.

Friday, October 23, 2009

Anyone who works in a restaurant probably has the same feelings that I do about restocking the ice bin. It is a huge pain in the ass. Why is ice so fucking heavy, anyway? The ice bin is a big slimy wet dank metal cube that is forever needing my attention and I am sick of dealing with it. I want to move to Europe where they all like everything without the ice so I can ignore the evil that is frozen water cubes.

If I ever own or design a restaurant I want to make sure the ice machine is close to the ice bin. On second thought, if I ever own or design a restaurant, someone please either wake me up from the nightmare I'm having or shoot me in the back of the head. In every place I have ever worked, the ice machine is about twenty blocks away from where the ice needs to be used. As I stocked the ice last time at my job I began to contemplate how completely inconvenient the location of the ice maker is. First off, you have to fill this giant one-handled bucket with ice three times in order to get enough ice to last the evening. The ice maker is in this teeny tiny narrow closet. After bucket number one is filled, I have to back up to get out of the room and shimmy through the door because it won't stay open on its on. I then have to lug the bucket around a crowded corner where there are glass racks stored and then go through a swinging door. A swinging door like in an old timey western saloon kind of place. You know what I mean? Then I have to get through another doorway and then go upstairs to the bar. This must be done three times. What the fuck? Yeah, don't put the ice machine someplace where it is convenient or anything, it's no problem. Fuckers.

At my last job, (VYNL Second Avenue in NYC. The owner is a prick.) the ice machine was also downstairs. Really steep metal stairs that I fell down once and busted my skinny ass on. There, we had to fill up a total of four buckets and make two trips up the stairs of death with a bucket in each hand, risking life and limb just so those Upper East Side bitches could have ice in their diet Cokes with lemon. Again, why not put the fucking ice machine nearby? At the job before that (Marriott, Brooklyn. Holla!) the ice machine was literally in a different part of the hotel. Like it was so far away we had to roll a trolley there and load it up with ice and then roll it back to the restaurant. Like it was so fucking far away you had to get a goddamn bus transfer to get back. Once more, in-fucking-convenient.

My solution? First, I propose that we make a big sign to hang on the door of the restaurant that says "Ice is Out of Order." If that is unacceptable, then why not just put the ice maker directly over the ice bin at the bar so that as the ice is made, it can just tumble directly into the desired location? It would be like Manna from Heaven or the Nectar of the Gods. Except it would just be ice. That I don't have to carry.

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

I was fondled at work this week. Well, sort of. Let us look at this post as a creative writing exercise. I will begin with the story exactly as it happened and at some point I will switch it to complete fiction and you see if you can tell when it switched from story telling to a big fat fucking bullshit lie.

It was a dark and stormy night on Sunday. The north wind was blowing and the temperature had dropped to a chilly 45 degrees. I made my way into the club buffering the wind with my hooded sweatshirt. I punched in and got ready for a three-show night. "It's gonna be a tough night, " I said to no one in particular as I wiped down tables and prepared the candles. The first show was a jazz singer who was ready to wail and blow the roof off the joint. Her audience was light but enthusiastic. I took the drink orders before the show started and rang them in ready to serve my guests and give them a night that was perfectly enjoyable from all angles. (No, that is not where the story deviates to fiction.) There was a broad at table 28 who was also a trumpet player for the show. She only had to perform in two numbers so she was sitting with her husband having a glass of Cabernet waiting for her time to get on stage. About halfway through the show, I stepped into the room to begin clearing empty glasses and make room for the second rounds. As I approached table 28 for the lady's wine glass, she was facing the stage and couldn't see that I was standing behind her and trying to clear her table. Surreptitiously, I reached my arm around her to pick up the glass when her hand reached out to grab mine. Apparently she thought my hand was the hand of her husband. She held it for a brief second as she continued to watch the stage. Pulling my hand away, I glanced at the husband who smiled at me seeing what was happening and knowing that his wife thought my hand was his.

A spark ignited between his wife and my cold cold heart. I reached back out to touch her hand again and I felt the warmth of our passion flow from my fingertips to the innermost recesses of my soul and thaw out my heart that had been longing for this feeling for oh so many years. She turned her head to look at her husband and realized that it was not his hand she was caressing, but mine. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment but then a smile came across her face making her lips a fuller deeper red than I have ever seen on any woman before or since. She pulled her hand away and muttered, "Excuse me. I must go to the ladies room." Racing towards the back of the room with her long dark hair billowing behind her, I heard a sob escape from her throat that I recognized as regret filled with longing. I cleared her wine glass, cleared my throat and avoided eye contact with the husband.

Two minutes later, I gently opened the door to the ladies room and saw her leaning against the counter with her head hanging over the sink. Her eyes looked up at me with confusion and desire. "It's okay," I said. "I feel the same way as you do." She pulled me towards her and planted her full moist lips on my mine as she ran her fingers through my hair. My hand wrapped around her waist and found a home in the waistband of her mom jeans. Kissing wildly, our tongues discovering each other, I was taken away to a place where drink orders no longer mattered and I was attracted to middle aged women trumpet players. Her hand moved from my hair to the nape of my neck, to the small of my back and finally to my ass where she grabbed and held on for dear life. When our lips parted, I looked into her eyes and a single tear fell from the left pool of blue.

"My husband is..." Her words trailed off.

"I don't care about your husband," I said. "I am in love with you. Ever since your hand accidentally touched mine four minutes ago, nothing else in the world matters to me anymore. You are all I care about." I glanced at the mirror behind her and saw the reflection of her husband staring back at me with a a dark and steely gaze. I turned around to defend my love of his trumpet-playing, mom jeans-wearing, middle aged wife. He rushed towards me, hand outreached, and I prepared to feel his fingers throttled around my neck. Instead, he brushed the hair out of my eyes with his left thumb and put his right hand on the nape of my neck, the same place his wife's had been moments earlier. He pulled me to him and kissed me with all the conviction he had. I struggled to get away and finally gave in to his power. His wife came to the front of me and they both made love to my face with their mouths savoring every inch of me.

Two minutes later, they were gone. I was alone in the women's bathroom wondering what had just happened. I splashed cold water on my face, straightened my apron and went back to the bar. I carried out the second drinks and my night went on as usual, but I was forever changed.